


Encore

by Lightningpelt



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (GIRLS), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Citronshipping, Developing Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Moving Out, Music, Separation Anxiety, Violins, bakura is a recluse and i don't 100 percent know what her deal is, but damn can she play that violin, fem!citron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 06:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightningpelt/pseuds/Lightningpelt
Summary: Malik is nervous about living on her own, but she's determined to manage. It's nice to be so close to her school, and the back windows of her new apartment let in a wonderful amount of natural light. It'll be worth a bit of separation anxiety, she's sure.Waking up to her neighbor's violin practice every morning helps a lot, too—so much so that she decides to take over a vegan pie and meet this mysterious new neighbor properly.Fem!Citron, TKB/Malik; modern AU





	Encore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SadistiKitteh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadistiKitteh/gifts).



> *sings* _This got out of haaaaaAAND!_
> 
> My friend!! I'm so excited that I got to write this for you, and I hope it's what you had in mind! :'D _It feels like I've been waiting a lifetime to write fem!citron_ , honestly, so thank you for this amazing excuse to do so! 
> 
> Still not super confident writing Malik, apparently, but an attempt was made, and I'm pleased with how it turned out. :P I have a great appreciation for Rishid, so he ended up with a fair amount of word count in here, too. 
> 
> **Warnings** for mentions of bras, make-outs, and vague allusions to past abuse; also discussions of dietary preferences/restrictions.

“I’ll be fine, Rishid,” Malik said, though she hugged her brother tightly. He refused to let go, powerful arms holding her as securely as they always had. As the minutes ticked by, she began to chuckle; push playfully at his chest. Rishid didn’t move. “Rishid, home is just ten minutes away!” 

“He worries when you’re so much as in a different room,” Ishizu put in, leaning against the door-frame. “I’ll do my best to stop him from turning up on your doorstep at all hours, but no guarantees.” 

“Rishid...! I’ll be fine, I promise!” Malik tried again to break free, but Rishid may as well have been craved from stone. He didn’t move, not a twitch of the head or a flex of the arms. “Please?” Malik twisted; grabbed the bottom of his shirt and used it to hoist herself slightly up; kissed him lightly on the cheek. 

That got Rishid to raise his head, at least, and Malik smiled at the tears streaming down his cheeks. “Malik...” 

“I’ll be fine. I promise.” 

Rishid slowly retracted his arms, then, and Malik gave herself a shake. Ishizu pushed off the wall; started in, like Malik knew she would: “Don’t forget your supplements, and don’t skip meals. Remember to brush your teeth. Obey traffic laws. Don’t put off chores, because then they’ll be that much harder to catch up on. Keep the place clean or else you’ll get bugs.” 

“I know, I know!” Malik said, holding up her hands. “I’ll be fine, Sister!” 

“I know you will be,” Ishizu said, though her eyes were misty as well. She caught Malik’s hands; gave them a squeeze. “We’re only ten minutes away. Call us if you need anything.” 

“I will. I love you guys.” 

“We love you, too.” 

And just like that, the door was shut; Malik was alone. She breathed deeply—in and then out. She looked down at her suitcases, lugged dutifully up the stairs by Rishid, sitting at her feet. 

She began, softly, to cry. 

Sliding down the inside of the front door, Malik buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She was unsure of why—she was excited to move out of the family home, and it would be wonderful to be closer to her college. She wasn’t especially frightened. She knew her siblings were only a ten minutes drive away—less on her motorcycle, traffic laws be damned. 

And yet she sobbed. 

Faintly, she thought she heard the sounds of a violin, but figured that was her imagination playing cliched tricks on her.

... ... ... 

Malik was unused to sleeping alone in a room. She and her two siblings had shared one for as long as she cared to remember and, although Ishizu would occasionally stay out the night or go on day trips for business or pleasure, Rishid _never_ left.

Malik missed the sounds of her brother’s snoring; of the restless toss of his large body among the blankets. She remembered being a small child and climbing up into his bed, seeking reassurance. Ishizu, though never cruel, would always turn her away. She said that Malik needed to learn to cope with nightmares and anxiety. 

Rishid never turned her away. 

Malik remembered those powerful arms wrapped gently around her. She remembered curling up, feeling tiny atop his broad chest. She remembered borrowing beneath the blankets, feeling hidden away tucked against his warm side. Nothing could find her there. Nothing could hurt her. 

Ishizu, though aware that her attempts at life lessons were being undermined, could never seem to intercede. 

Though she hadn’t crawled into Rishid’s bed in years, Malik felt cold that night. The silence—the lack of another person’s breath—seemed almost malicious, and Malik kept her eyes tightly shut. If she opened them, she thought, she might see something horrible. She longed to scramble for her phone, where it sat on the nightstand, and dial Rishid’s number. She knew he would pick up. She just needed to hear his voice. She _knew_ he would pick up. 

But Malik also knew that she couldn’t call Rishid. If she called Rishid, he’d throw a coat on over his pajamas—she wondered if he was wearing the black set or the baby blue set, that night—and come charging over. She knew his nerves were already in tatters, concerning the move. She couldn’t call Rishid. So she bore the loneliness and tried to think of Ishizu, instead—of her strong sister, who certainly wouldn’t waver in such circumstances. 

By the time dawn began to filter in through the curtains, Malik was certain she hadn’t managed to sleep more than a fitful hour during the long night. Still frightened to open her eyes, she pulled the covers up over her face and tried to ignore the light filtering, pale pink, through her eyelids. She felt the sting of desperate tears and tried to force them back. 

That was when she heard the music. 

Malik’s eyes opened before she could stop them, and she found herself gazing at the soft gray fabric of the blanket. The sounds started out as a few experimental strokes across violin strings, then evolved into scales. There was something profoundly soothing about the rhythmic exercises, and Malik felt the tension leave her body. As the scales flowed smoothly into something more melodic—a song, certainly—Malik closed her eyes again; drifted into a peaceful sleep as the sun rose.

... ... ... 

“Yeah, I’m doing fine,” Malik said, her phone balanced between ear and shoulder. She nudged banana slices around a saucepan, browning them in olive oil. “It’s only the third day, Sis. Mm. Yeah. Settling in fine. Mm? Caramelized bananas with oatmeal. You know the recipe. Yeah, taking my supplements, too.”

Each day, Rishid had checked in multiple times with Malik via text and call and video chat. This was the first time that Ishizu had called, and she was taking the opportunity to cross-examine her little sister. Malik wasn’t flustered. 

“Mmhm,” Malik said, lifting the pan so that the bananas slid off into the waiting bed of oatmeal. The heat of them visibly melted the dark chocolate topping, and Malik felt a shiver of anticipation as she walked to the kitchen table. “Sleeping fine. Yeah. It’s okay, really. First night was a bit rough, but nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

The first night had been the hardest, by far. But after that, Malik had begun looking forward to waking up each morning to the sounds of the violin. She figured it must be a neighbor playing, although she didn’t dare hazard a guess at which one. She wondered if she would ever find out; thought she would be fine, if she never did. But the comfort the instrument brought her was undeniable, and she was grateful. 

“Right. I’ll call him later, Sis. I promise. Thanks. I know this is rough on him. I know. I’ll have you both over just as soon as I’ve unpacked a bit.” Malik took a bite of her breakfast; sighed at the sweet decadence. “Right. I’ll call him. Thanks for checking in. Love you, too. Bye.” 

Hanging up, Malik sighed again; ate her breakfast. She swallowed a set of dietary supplements—more a habit and a safeguard, nowadays, but still an important routine to her. Classes didn’t start for another week, so she spent the day unpacking TV and game console and other living room paraphernalia. She took time to appreciate how well-lit the living room was, natural sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass doors. Upon fixing a quick lunch for herself, she decided to eat it out on the porch, despite her decided lack of outdoor furniture. 

The sun was pleasantly warm, and Malik relished the feel of it on her bare shoulders. She leaned against the railing, nibbling on her salad and gazing out at the city. She could see her college, just down the street, and felt a thrill of excitement. 

Without deciding to, Malik peered into the balcony to her right. It appeared deserted, aside from an obligatory table and chair. But when she turned to her left, her eyes widened sharply. 

Sitting on the balcony to her right was a music stand, currently devoid of papers. A small table sat beside a chair, half a dozen coffee mugs cluttering it’s surface. The balcony itself looked rather messy, but in a well-lived-in sort of way. Malik caught herself staring, wondering if the mysterious musician would appear. 

_And what would you_ do _if they came out and caught you staring like a moron, hmm?_ Malik chuckled at the awkward thought, then gave herself a shake; redirected her gaze to the street below. She finished her salad, but couldn’t stop herself from sneaking one more peak into the balcony on her left. It was still devoid of neighbors, and Malik convinced herself that that was a good thing as she ducked inside and returned to her unpacking.

... ... ... 

Malik woke, the next day, to violin music. It was an easy way to wake up—gentle; soothing. As the dawn light crept through her curtains, she wondered what type of person must be playing. She tried to picture them and, of course, failed—she had no basis for even the slightest conjecture. So she simply laid there, listening as scales became songs. She didn’t recognize any of the music, and dared to wonder if the violinist had composed them. She wondered again at who they might be.

 _Thank you..._ she thought, and smiled; let her eyes close. _Thank you..._

... ... ... 

On her fifth day in the apartment, Malik decided—she would meet her next door neighbor. She didn’t intend to bear her soul to them, or even admit that she could hear them playing, if they didn’t seem the type to appreciate such things, but she felt some proper gesture of gratitude was called for. So she baked a pie—a deep dish apple pie using a vegan recipe she was fond of—and dressed. She tried not to put too much time and effort into her appearance—she wasn’t trying to impress her mysterious neighbor, she reminded herself. So she stuck to simple gold bracelets and choker; tasteful black eyeliner; a cropped t-shirt and skinny jeans. She did comb her hair a bit, a step she often forgot before leaving the house.

Malik stormed the few feet separating their doors; knocked briskly without hesitation, and then took a step backwards. She heard rustling behind the door and wondered again who this person might turn out to be. It occurred to her suddenly that she might manage to make a friend, and she shivered. 

The door swung open, and Malik felt her eyes widen. Though she hadn’t tried to picture her mysterious neighbor, she decidedly wasn't expecting what she saw. The girl was probably in her mid-twenties, but had ratty gray hair; her skin, a shade darker brown than Malik’s own, was cross-hatched with pale scars. The most disturbing of these marred the right side of her face, extending from above her eye to midway down her cheek. She was small, about Malik’s height, but compact—muscular. She wore a maroon t-shirt and sweats, both with visible holes in them, and no shoes; no bra; no jewelry or makeup. 

The neighbor simply stared; Malik, eventually, was compelled to say, “Hello!” perhaps too loudly. 

“Hey,” the girl replied, and tilted her head. Malik felt her stomach flip at the rasp in her voice. “Can I help you?” 

“I am... your new neighbor,” Malik said, figuring her best option was to just forge on ahead. “I made a pie.” 

“Where’re you from, the sixties?” the girl asked, but with a lopsided grin that took the sting out of her words. She looked Malik up and down, then jerked her head. “Come in, I guess. Place isn’t real clean, though.” 

Malik padded in behind her neighbor; the apartment was dimly lit, and Malik wondered if the girl preferred it that way for some reason. 

“Go on ‘n put that on the table, if y’want.” The girl said, ducking into the kitchen. There was a decided lack of dining room table, so Malik, by default, set the pie on the cluttered coffee table that sat in front of a worn-out couch. The neighbor called in, “Want something to drink? Soda? Beer? I’ve got... that’s all I’ve got. Ran outta coffee this morning...” 

“Water?” Malik asked. 

“Tap okay? Don’t have bottles.” 

"Heathen..." Malik muttered, but then called, “That’s fine.” 

The neighbor re-emerged, glass of water and can of soda in-hand. “Sit down, if you want,” she said, and Malik lowered herself onto the couch. “I’m Bakura.” 

_Bakura..._ Malik thought. She accepted the glass; said, “My name is Malik, Malik Ishtar.” 

Bakura nodded thoughtfully; sat on Malik’s right, her scar momentarily hidden. “Malik. So you just moved in?” 

“For school,” Malik said. 

“Mm. Enrolled right down the street?” 

“Yeah. I’m majoring in criminology.” 

Bakura laughed softly. “That’s a really cool field. Congrats.” 

“Are you in school?” Malik ventured, and Bakura shook her head. 

“Academia’s not for me.” She didn’t expand on that, instead nodding to the coffee table. “Thanks for the pie.” 

“Sure, no problem,” Malik said. “Hope you like it.” 

“Not too picky, about food. I’m sure it’ll be good. Want some? We could have some now.” 

“Sure, if you want.” 

Bakura nodded, then rose; stretched, and then strolled back to the kitchen. Malik let her gaze wander, in her host’s absence; took in the clutter and the curtains closed tightly over the back windows. A violin case leaned against the sliding doors. 

Bakura returned, and Malik was struck again by the girl’s unexpected attractiveness. She looked _strong_ —a force to be reckoned with. The scars aside, she looked like she could certainly hold her own in a brawl. The smile she gave Malik, as she sat back down, was almost a sneer, as if she was unused to smiling. She looked away quickly and sliced into the pie. 

“What do you do?” Malik asked eventually. “If you don’t mind, of course.” 

“Odd jobs,” was the evasive answer. “Handy work. Mechanics. That kinda thing. Pick up a quick part-time thing if I’m desperate. I scrape by.” 

“I see...” Malik murmured, and took a drink of water. 

“You? You work, or full-time school?” 

“I’m full-time at school.” 

Bakura nodded as though she’d expected that answer. She deftly scooped a slice of pie out, with the knife, and offered a plate to Malik. Malik waited until Bakura tucked into her piece. Bakura seemed to have forgotten utensils, but Malik wasn’t bothered. 

“Mm. Really good,” Bakura murmured, shoving a gooey bit into her mouth. 

Malik, a bit more carefully, lapped at her fingertips. “I’m glad. It’s a vegan recipe. I didn’t know if you had any dietary restrictions.” 

Bakura chuckled. “‘Dietary restrictions?’ Don’t be stupid.” 

Malik felt a flare of indignation despite herself. “I’m vegetarian.” 

Bakura didn’t respond, at first, then mumbled, “Didn’t mean anythin’ by that.” 

Malik huffed, but swallowed against a harsh retort. She’d gotten worse reactions, in the past—fought people, over worst reactions. 

“It’s really good,” Bakura said again, then crammed a chunk into her mouth seemingly to demonstrate her sincerity. She didn’t look over at Malik. 

“I’m glad,” Malik said again, and might have said more if her phone didn’t start ringing. She hastily wiped her hand on her jeans before pulling it out. “Sorry, give me just a minute.” Bakura watched quizzically, sideways, as Malik answered the phone. “Hey! I’m good! How’s your morning? Right... Right. I’m fine, really! Eight hours; no nightmares. Eggs—an omelette with peppers and mushrooms, and cheese, too. Yes, I am. Yep. For sure. I know. I love—I love you too. I’ll call later, okay? I’m in the middle of something. Of course. I love you. Talk to you soon.” 

“Who was that? Parent?” Bakura asked, when Malik hung up. 

Malik shook her head. “My brother, Rishid. Although you’re right, he might as well be.” She smiled; held the phone briefly to her chest. 

Bakura watched her, for a moment, then returned her attention to her slice of pie. “Might as well be, hmm...?” she murmured. 

Malik nodded. “I think it’s been harder on him than it has been on me. My moving out, I mean.” 

“I wouldn’t know.” Bakura’s tone signaled the end of that conversation, and Malik took due note. A moment later, Bakura changed the subject herself. “Making the rounds with pies? Or something caught your eye about my door?” 

Bakura sounded faintly suspicious, and Malik wondered if she should risk the truth. In the end, she just said, “I had a good feeling.” 

Bakura glanced up in apparent surprise, then averted her eyes as soon as Malik met her gaze. “Cliche...” she muttered, and Malik felt her face heat. 

“I am not!” 

“You are,” Bakura grumbled, but her lips were curved slightly upward. “A cute one, sure, but still a damn cliche.”

... ... ... 

The next morning, Malik woke to the sound of Bakura’s violin. The music was a bit more upbeat than it had been, in days past, and Malik thought that it matched her own light-hearted feeling perfectly. She thought again of Bakura; of her scarred body and rough tone, and of her underdeveloped smile and her keen eyes. Malik sighed, wondering how it would feel to thread her fingers through that knotty gray hair. She wondered how hard it would be to get closer to the mysterious violinist, and steeled herself for the task.

“Good morning, Rishid.” 

Malik propped the phone up beside the stove; chatted with her brother, via video call, while she cooked. Rishid didn’t notice she’d made enough food for two. She exchanged farewells and “I-love-you”s with Rishid, then packed up her breakfast and marched next door. 

Bakura answered the door in the same clothes she’d been wearing the day before, visibly surprised. “... Malik, was it?” she asked, and Malik held up the Tupperware. 

“I made too much breakfast. I thought I’d see if you wanted some.” 

Bakura’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced around. Upon finding only Malik in the hallway, she jerked her head. “C’mon in... I guess...” 

While Malik quietly congratulated herself, Bakura shut the door and vanished into the kitchen. 

“I got some more coffee. Or I’ve got soda... beer... tap water...” 

“Coffee would be good,” Malik replied, taking a seat on the couch and unpacking the food she’d brought. “Do you like omletts?” 

“I told you, I’m not that picky,” Bakura said, with a hint of amusement. She arrived with two coffee mugs; sat beside Malik. “A nice piece of pork roast is my favorite, though, so I don’t know what that means for our compatibility.” 

Malik felt her stomach turn at the mention of _pork roast_ , but her face heated at the mention of _their compatibility_. While she tried to untangle the feelings, Bakura picked up one of the boxes and dug in—once again with her fingers. 

“You’re a good cook,” Bakura mumbled, though the food. “You should consider culinary instead of criminology.” 

Malik shook her head. “Nah... this is just a hobby.” 

“You’re good at it, though,” Bakura insisted. “Not that you’re no good at criminology, ‘cause I wouldn’t know,” she added. “But you should consider it. This is a talent, yknow. Not a thing to be wasted.” 

“Why don’t you play professionally, then?” 

Bakura froze, and Malik cursed her impulsive, defensive question. She nodded toward the violin case resting against the doors, hoping that Bakura would assume that was how she’d known. 

But Bakura didn’t assume. Instead she asked, “What do you know about me?” in a chilled tone that made Malik’s fingers twitch. 

“Nothing,” Malik answered honestly. “Not really, at least... just that you play violin...” 

“How?” 

“I’ve heard it. From my bedroom. When you play on the balcony, in the mornings.” 

Bakura swore softly, then fell silent. 

“I’m not talented at cooking, anyways,” Malik said, in an attempt to defuse the tension. “I’ve just spent way too much time doing it.” 

“I won’t sell that," Bakura said. 

“Hmm?” Malik blinked. “The violin?” 

“Is that why you came over? Because you heard me play?” 

Malik felt her heart pick up speed. “Not entirely.” 

“‘Good feeling,’” Bakura scoffed. “Bullshit.” 

“It’s true!” Malik objected, springing to her feet. Bakura looked up sharply. “I _do_ have a good feeling—and part of that’s because of your music, sure, but it’s because you play beautifully! And I—! I wouldn’t be okay, if I couldn’t hear that every morning! I would’ve given up, by now!” 

In the dim light of the apartment—the sunlight struggling, futilely, to break through the drawn curtains—Bakura narrowed her eyes. “Given up? Explain.” 

Malik swallowed; wondered why Bakura’s eyes gleamed with such desperation, when it was Malik who’d been put so on the spot. “I... I haven’t been alone since... since then. It’s hard. I would’ve gone back home, or called my brother to come stay here with me. He would, I know. But hearing you play every morning... it’s comforting. It’s something good to wake up to. It’s a reason to make it through the night.” 

Bakura was silent, for a long moment, then sat back; crossed her legs and looked away. “That’s stupid. My music? Don’t make me laugh.” 

“It’s true!” Malik insisted, her panic building into anger. “Don’t underestimate yourself!” 

“Why don’t I play professionally?” Bakura asked, and then shrugged. “Because I've given up or compromised on _everything_ , in some way or another. And I don’t mind. That’s how I live. But I won’t do that with my music. I _won't_.” 

Malik’s shoulders sagged; she felt the weight of Bakura’s convictions and wilted beneath it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—“ 

“It’s fine.” Bakura cut her off. “You didn’t mean anything by it. I thought you might, but you didn’t. I jumped to conclusions.” 

They were silent for another moment, and then Malik sat slowly back down. Bakura sighed softly, then glanced over. 

“Do you want to see it? I won’t play it, but I’ll show you.” 

Malik nodded, sensing that Bakura was trying—trying painfully hard. Bakura nodded, seeming to reassure herself, and then fetched the violin case from its resting spot. She returned to the couch and sat beside Malik, closer than before. Malik could smell her faintly dusty scent, like a faraway desert, overlaid with cheap coffee. Bakura opened the violin case in her lap, revealing a lush interior of scarlet velvet. 

“Oh...” Malik whispered, as Bakura lifted the instrument out. The gleaming wood was pristine—cleaned, clearly, with great care. The scroll was carved into the likeness of a serpent, it’s maw open to reveal savage fangs. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Thanks,” Bakura said, honestly. She lifted the instrument to better display it, and then, as if compelled to, twisted it around so that it nestled into place beneath her chin. She didn’t remove the bow from its resting place, but the fingers of her left hand ran along the neck as if feeling out the chords of a song. Malik watched their nimble movements, transfixed. “It’s my treasure.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Malik said again, and almost added, ‘like you.’ But she figured that might not be welcome, and so watched in silence as Bakura played a silent song, her eyes sliding shut at some point as she focused on chords only she could hear.

... ... ... 

Malik was a bit anxious, when she went to sleep. Knowing she had an audience, would Bakura still play to greet the dawn?

Malik woke to a rich, sonorous melody unlike one she’d heard before. She felt her face grow hot, picturing Bakura standing out on her balcony with her violin, eyes closed as she played. Perhaps her body was swaying; maybe she was humming a harmony to go with the melody she played. Malik’s chest swelled with gratitude for the simple privilege of hiding beneath her warm blankets and listening to her enchanting neighbor play gorgeous music. 

As Malik fixed herself breakfast, she wondered if turning up on Bakura’s doorstep for a third day in a row would be too presumptuous. But the consideration didn’t stop her from fixing food for two, then packing up the meal and skipping out into the hallway. 

“Good morning!” 

Bakura smiled. She wore a different t-shirt, but her sweats were still that same pair. Malik thought that Ishizu would be horrified, but she didn’t mind. “Mornin’.” 

Malik followed Bakura into the apartment; noticed that, while the curtains were still drawn, Bakura had cleared the coffee table a bit. There was more room for her to set down the food. The violin case, as well, had moved, now resting against Bakura’s end of the couch. 

“What did you think, this morning?” 

Malik blinked; glanced over. Bakura was watching her, her gaze mild but unwavering as she waited for an answer. “This morning?” 

Bakura nodded. 

Taking her best guess, Malik said, “It was great! I haven’t heard you play that one, before.” 

Bakura nodded slowly; Malik felt a wave of cool relief that she’d answered the question correctly. “I haven’t played it, before. I just... I mean, I only wrote it last night.” 

“So you do write them!” Malik exclaimed. 

“Some of them.” Bakura shrugged. “Sometimes.” But she was smiling, though she kept her eyes on the floor, and Malik felt her heart flutter. 

They sat in comfortable silence; ate the food Malik had brought and sipped Bakura’s instant coffee. Malik listened to the sound of Bakura breathing, and thought it was just as comforting as the song of the violin. 

“Are you doing better?” Bakura asked, without preamble. “Without your siblings, I mean?” 

Malik nodded. “They call. I talk to Rishid, my brother, at least twice a day. But I’m glad to be on my own. I’m glad I can _manage_ being on my own. But that’s thanks to you, in part.” 

Bakura shook her head. “Nah. That’s all you, girly. I’m just here by coincidence.” 

“I don’t believe that,” Malik said, and risked taking Bakura’s hand. Though Bakura looked over in surprise, she didn’t pull away. “I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in destiny.” 

Bakura chuckled, then laughed raucously. She twisted her hand, though, so that her fingers threaded with Malik’s, and she squeezed. “You’re such a damn cliche! It kills me!” 

“I am not!” Malik objected, and was surprised when Bakura leaned in close. There was something vaguely predatory about Bakura’s grin, and her fingers tightened around Malik’s. 

“Really? The pretty little rich girl with absentee parents but supportive siblings as stand-ins? Tries to befriend scary strangers based on ‘good feelings?’ Believes in destiny? Swoons over sunrises and fancy violin music? Sounds pretty cliche to me.” 

“You’re not that scary,” Malik huffed. “My parents aren’t absentee, they’re dead. And I don’t _swoon_ over anything, thanks!” 

Bakura leaned in closer still, and Malik squeaked as she was forced to twist against the back of the couch. “You don’t swoon, you say? So then, if I, say, kissed you, it wouldn’t phase you?” 

Malik felt herself flush red despite her best attempts not to, and Bakura chuckled. “N-Not at all!” 

“Your blush says differently,” Bakura murmured, then planted a swift peck on Malik’s warm cheek. Malik felt her head grow light, and Bakura was chuckling again as she drew back. “Too easy.” 

“You don’t even have the _nerve_ to go for a proper kiss!” Malik huffed, and Bakura’s eyes flashed. 

“Don’t have the nerve?” 

“Such a predictable cop-out, a kiss on the cheek!” Malik scoffed, turning pointedly away. “And you say _I'm_ the cliche!” 

The next thing Malik knew, both her wrists had been seized; she was pressed gently back against the arm of the couch as Bakura kissed her, lips insistent and hungry. Malik mumbled something that fell short of being proper words; closed her eyes and opened her mouth. She felt Bakura’s soft chest brush hers—confirmed, disconnectedly, that Bakura wasn’t a patron of bras. Bakura’s mouth tasted of cheap coffee and Malik’s own spicy cooking; her lips were pliable but chapped. 

When Bakura pulled back, she was out of breath; Malik wondered if the slight shift of color in her face was a blush. Bakura released Malik’s wrists; mumbled, “S-Sorry...” 

“No, you proved me wrong,” Malik said, with a laugh. “Apologies.” 

Bakura kissed her again, lightly; again, and then again. She ran her fingers lightly through Malik’s hair, over top of her head. “You’re so soft...” Bakura murmured, then nuzzled into and kissed Malik’s temple. Malik felt teeth scrape the skin there. “I could eat you...” 

“You could try...” Malik replied. “I might prove a bit hard to stomach.” 

Bakura laughed; ran her hand up Malik’s side. She toyed with the edge of Malik’s bra as though feeling out a chord on her violin, but didn’t try to work beneath it. She leaned in close to Malik's ear; gave it a nip and growled, "I'm sure I could manage... vicious _carnivore_ that I am..." 

"Gods, that's cheesy!" Malik exclaimed, grabbing a pillow with her free hand and whacking Bakura over the head. Bakura laughed, but yielded; leaned back. Then Malik, despite herself, was chuckling too.

... ... ... 

The next morning, Malik woke to Bakura’s violin. She smiled; stretched; climbed from her bed before the song had ended. She crept to her window and pushed back the curtain, peering out. When she couldn’t see Bakura from there, she wrenched the dusty window pane open and leaned out, feeling the nip of the early-morning air through her pajamas.

Bakura, clad in a red house-robe, was just visible around the wall, past Malik’s own balcony. She stood, bow in-hand, coaxing the violin’s strings into melodic song. Malik could see that there wasn’t any music on the stand. 

Leaning further out the window, Malik sighed; let her weight rest fully on the windowsill as she gazed at Bakura. As she watched, Bakura transitioned songs—didn’t pause, but flowed effortlessly from the bright, upbeat progression into something more contemplative, each note tremulous and meaningful. Malik longed to close her eyes and listen, but couldn’t tear her gaze away from Bakura to do so. 

When the song slowed, slowed, drew to a close, Bakura froze; seemed to exhale, and then lowered her instrument. Only then did Malik begin to clap, and Bakura jumped violently; spun. 

“Bravo!” Malik called, and waved. “Encore!” 

There was a clatter of falling coffee mugs as Bakura half-flung herself at the railing and leaned over. “You maniac!” she shouted. “You’re gonna fall!” 

“Will not!” Malik called back, relieved that Bakura didn’t seem angry at having been spied one. She leaned obligingly back so that her feet touched down on her own carpet again. “See?” 

Bakura scowled, then motioned—a “come here” gesture, clearly, and Malik felt a thrill. As Bakura disappeared back into her apartment, Malik did the same; hurried to fix her makeup and throw something halfway presentable on. She dashed out into the hallway, scarcely remembering to lock her own door before rapping on Bakura’s. 

“Morning, Sunshine,” Bakura crooned, and Malik felt her heart leap. They moved together into the apartment. “Enjoyed the serenade?” 

“As always,” Malik replied, nudging Bakura’s shoulder with her own. Bakura glanced over in surprise. “You didn’t give me time to fix breakfast, though.” 

“You wanted an encore,” Bakura said, and Malik stalled in surprise. Bakura turned. “Right?” 

“Yes!” Malik exclaimed, and Bakura granted her an unusually earnest smile. Bakura fetched her violin from the side of the room as Malik took her comfortable seat on the couch. Bakura’s smile had vanished by the time she returned, and her eyes were hooded with anxiety. Malik did her best to sit attentively without seemingly overly intense. When Bakura met her gaze, she smiled encouragingly. 

Bakura didn’t bother with words, simply lifted her bow and began to play. The chords began slow; hesitant; experimental. Their confidence grew as Bakura closed her eyes, and the tempo picked up. When it slowed again, it was deliberate—contemplative rather than hesitant. By then, the tension had faded from Bakura’s body; she swayed subtly with the melodies, and Malik was every bit as enchanted by the movement as by the music. 

Once Bakura had finished playing, she sat beside Malik; they talked easily, about inconsequential things. Bakura demonstrated a few cords on the violin; Malik appreciated it, earnestly, although only pretending to understand the intricacies of the technique. She was more taken, honestly, by the way Bakura’s eyes shone in the dim apartment light, and with the grace with which her calloused fingers ran along the strings. The snake carving watched from its vantage-point on the scroll. 

“Thank you...” Malik breathed, as Bakura nestled the violin back into its case. 

Bakura glanced up at her; smirked. “Will you indulge _me_ with an encore, now?” 

“Wha...?” Malik began to ask, and then stopped as Bakura leaned over; kissed her, hungrily. Malik whined slightly, unsure how to respond but wrapping her arms around Bakura’s neck—that seemed the correct response, if she was remembering her romantic movie scenes correctly. Bakura’s shoulders were wiry; strong. As Bakura climbed up onto her lap, Malik felt the soft weight of Bakura’s chest; felt Bakura’s thigh press against the outside of her own. Malik sucked in a breath between kisses, wondering if she should stop things; not wanting to stop things. 

Neither heard—or minded, perhaps—the faint sound of knocking. Neither paid it any heed when it grew louder. 

“Is this okay?” Bakura breathed, as her hand slid around Malik’s waist, beneath her shirt. Malik nodded; kissed Bakura again, to stop the bothersome questions. It was okay—it was okay. Malik slid one hand up Bakura’s back; felt the roughness of scars there, and thought of the cruel designs carved into her own back. She scratched lightly at Bakura’s shoulder. 

A tremendous _crash_ made both Bakura and Malik bolt up; look toward the door. Then they looked at one another, and Malik said, “That sounded like—!” 

“Your apartment?!” Bakura bounded up, pulling Malik with her by one hand. Together they hurried to the door; tore out into the hallway, only to find Malik’s front door barely hanging on by the uppermost hinge. “What the hell?!” 

Malik tried to hurry forward, but Bakura blocked her; held her back with one arm. 

“Let me go in first.” 

“I can handle myself!” Malik objected, dodging around Bakura. 

Bakura cursed; gave chase. “Be careful, Malik!” 

No sooner had the two reached Malik’s living room, however, than a figure appeared—loomed out, menacing, from the bedroom doorway. Bakura bristled, springing out in front of Malik, but Malik dashed around her once again. 

“Rishid!” 

“Rishid?!” Bakura demanded, even as Malik flung herself at her brother. Rishid, though visibly bewildered, accepted her into an embrace. 

“Rishid, what are you doing here?” Malik asked, even as Rishid held her tighter; stroked her hair. 

“Weren’t answering...” he murmured. 

Malik’s heart dropped. “I left my phone this morning... I didn’t even think...” 

“So you just bust into her apartment, if she’s not picking up?!” Bakura took an aggressive step forward, and Rishid fixed her with such a glare that she faltered for a moment. “Where do you get off, brute?!” 

“Bakura, it’s okay!” Malik said, twisting in Rishid’s arms. Rishid resisted, for a moment, holding on tighter, but after a moment he released her with a stiff unfolding of arms. Malik stumbled, finding herself suddenly on her own feet again. “This is my brother, Rishid. I’ve told you about him.” 

“You didn’t tell me he was _this_ overzealous.” Bakura’s lip twitched—almost a snarl but not quite. 

“He has good reason.” Malik said, decisive. She turned, then, to Rishid. “This is Bakura, my new neighbor. I was over at her house, this morning. I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten to grab my phone.” 

“We were worried,” Rishid said—a low rumble that made Bakura bristle again. Malik went again to him, and they embraced. Rishid buried his face in Malik’s hair. “Worried... so worried...” 

“I’m fine,” Malik said, with conviction. She pulled lightly on Rishid’s shirt, and he uncurled just enough so she could look up into his face. “I’ve been enjoying spending time with Bakura. It’s helped a lot.” 

Rishid’s gaze flashed to Bakura again; Bakura tensed, shuffling back a step and drawing herself up as if to compensate for her stature. Rishid’s eyes narrowed; flicked over the ratty t-shirt and same exact sweatpants that Bakura had been wearing since the first day Malik met her. Rishid’s eyes narrowed a fraction more. 

“He... Hello...” Bakura raised a hand in some attempt at greeting. 

Rishid released Malik, then, and stepped around her. Bakura held his gaze, defiant despite their difference in size, as Rishid took a step towards her. 

“You... are Malik’s friend?” Rishid asked eventually, and Bakura’s face went a bit ashen. Malik, behind Rishid, nodded furiously and gave a thumbs-up. 

“Ye... Yes...” Bakura said. 

Rishid’s arms snapped open, then shut abruptly again around Bakura. Bakura gave a startled shout at the assault, but stopped struggling when she realized she wasn’t being crushed—only tightly embraced. 

“Thank you... for helping my sister...” Rishid murmured, and tightened his grip. Bakura shot Malik a beleaguered, suffering look, and received no rescue. Bakura was just beginning to relax a bit when Rishid continued, “If you hurt her, hell will be a relief when I’m through with you.” 

Malik made a show of silent laughter as Bakura wriggled, suddenly far less comfortable with the situation. In his own time, Rishid released her, and Bakura slunk to Malik’s side. 

“Still not normal...” Bakura muttered. “Break down her door ‘cause you can’t get through on the phone...” 

It occurred to Malik, suddenly, that there was sunlight streaming in through her own back windows—there always was, after all. But not only was Rishid bathed in sunshine, _Bakura_ was as well. Malik was caught short of breath with how Bakura’s silver hair shone; how the complexity of her skin tone grew richer still in the natural light. Despite their wary glint, Bakura’s gray eyes reflected the sun; came alive with it. 

Rishid caught Malik gazing, rapt, at Bakura, and he smiled. He didn’t draw attention to it, but addressed Bakura again. “Sorry for the trouble.” Then he said, to Malik, “The apartment is looking nice. The natural light is wonderful.” 

Malik smiled. “Thanks! Will you stay for breakfast? Bakura, you too?” 

“I...!” Bakura began, looking like she might refuse. But eventually she nodded, and ended up sitting at the bar while Rishid and Malik cooked together. She remained silent, listening as the siblings chatted about mundane things—Malik chatted, mostly, with Rishid offering an occasional word. 

After the three had shared breakfast, Rishid departed. After an awkward shuffling of feet and an exchange of glances, Malik and Bakura ended up on Malik's new couch. 

"Your brother's weird," Bakura said, without preamble. "Nice, but weird." 

"And you aren't?" Malik asked. 

Bakura shot her a sore look, and Malik snickered. "That's not the point." 

"I'm just glad you got along alright." 

"Whatever..." Bakura grumbled, leaning back into the sofa and closing her eyes. She beautiful in the natural light, and Malik gazed at her for a moment; watched her breathe. After a moment, she leaned in and kissed Bakura. Bakura startled; spluttered, "H-Hey...!" but found any further objections smothered by Malik's mouth. 

"Encore..." Malik murmured, as they tipped sideways onto the couch. 

Bakura, belatedly, managed to push Malik back just a bit. "You moron...!" She chuckled breathlessly. "Your front door is still hanging off it's damn hinges!" 

"If someone wanders in, then they'll be awfully embarrassed..." Malik replied, and kissed Bakura again. 

Bakura seemed to want to object, but let out a heavy breath without speaking; wrapped her arms around Malik's shoulders instead and kissed back. Bathed in sunlight, they explored with gentle hands and eager mouths. Bakura was out of breath when she whispered, close to Malik's ear, "So when Rishid asked... if I was your friend..." 

"I didn't want him to try to fight you..." Malik replied. 

"I could take him..." 

"I'd rather you not try!" 

"Are we friends, Malik Ishtar?" 

"I hope so," Malik murmured, as she kissed Bakura's neck. Bakura shoved her into the back of the couch, and Malik laughed breathlessly. "Friends... girlfriends... you know... both... same thing..." 

"Not the same thing, you fool..." Bakura muttered, but allowed it when Malik crawled back on top of her. She ran her hands up the backs of Malik's thighs. "Not the same thing..." 

"Close enough..." Malik murmured. "Both..." 

"Fine. Both," Bakura conceded, and let the conversation fade amid heavy breathing and soft moans in the sunlight. 

**End~**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the amazing prompt~ I very much hope you enjoyed this! :'D (along with anyone else who may be reading, ofc!) 
> 
>  
> 
> (I have a vague desire to explore this AU further at some point, since I ended up with an unfortunate number of headcanons during the writing process, but we'll just see about that~)


End file.
